


a summer's day miracles

by marginaliana



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Gen, Miracles, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: What Aziraphale liked best were the miracles he thought up on his own. The little ones. The spontaneous ones. The personal ones.





	a summer's day miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prosodiical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/gifts).

Aziraphale, being an angel, was perfectly competent with the miracles he was assigned. Saving the life of a child who would grow up to be a good woman. Leading a doctor away from the temptation of bribes. Encouraging donations to donkey charities. Soothing the pain of those in hospice beds, staying the hand of an angry husband. Promoting a play about the joy of faith (it was dreadful, but thanks to him it ran for three months).

But what he liked best were the ones he thought up on his own. The little ones. The spontaneous ones. The personal ones.

* * *

It was a rare hot summer's day, sticky, miniature mirages forming along the pavement. Aziraphale sweated; it didn't seem fair to cool himself when the humans couldn't. If Crowley were here, he'd have badgered Aziraphale into it and Aziraphale would have been secretly grateful. But he was alone and so, with discipline, he sweated.

People seemed determined to be out nonetheless – parents, children, lovers, friends grouped two or three or eight (getting in _everyone's_ way without an ounce of humility, it was a da— a dratted shame). Others, alone like Aziraphale, on the way to somewhere or wishing they were.

* * *

Aziraphale noticed a teenage boy with an enormous backpack just as he tripped and dropped the bag. Things fell out. _Everything_ fell out, so thoroughly that Aziraphale might have suspected demonic influence in the disaster except that Crowley was in France.

The boy sighed, resigned, and knelt to gather his things. Aziraphale saw, himself resigned, that no one would stop to help. He raised a breeze. A twenty pound note wafted along, neatly tucking its corner between pages of a textbook. The boy reached for it, his pleasure carried aloft to those around him with another soft sweep of wind.

* * *

There was a man in a car at the next red light, muttering impatient demands. Aziraphale would have sniffed – sniffily – if it hadn't been for the woman beside him, visibly in labor. 

Aziraphale sighed; the light turned green. The others would, too, all along the way. Unnecessary – she wasn't anything like that far along. They'd have made it to the hospital easily. But it would ease the man's concern and hers in turn (men so often projected stress, unfortunately) and Aziraphale did so love making the creation of new life just that little bit easier. Creation was, after all, divine.

* * *

Two young people argued inside the open door of a shop, half in English and half in Urdu. 

Aziraphale wasn't really listening to the substance of it. He thought instead of how he both did and didn't regret the whole Babel thing. Obviously it had caused some unpleasant communication difficulties. But there were also new books, new glittering words and delicate sentences.

One of the two people struggled to think of an English equivalent for a word. Aziraphale nudged the word forward absently but was taken aback when they spit it out.

"Asshole!"

Well. It was effective communication, at least.

* * *

A child wailed at the remains of an ice cream. Aziraphale had never much liked children. Helping bring them into the world, certainly. But once they'd been born? They were loud and unappreciative and _sticky_, the inherent enemies of a bookshop owner. And he never knew quite what to say to them. Magic tricks tended to be frowned upon when one didn't know the child personally.

The child's parents looked harried and as if they thought they'd never sleep again. Aziraphale took pity on them more than on the child and sent the ice cream neatly back into its cone.

* * *

He waited on the corner for light to change. There were two women in front of him, standing close but not touching in the way of two strangers on a crowded pavement. One, wearing utilitarian shorts, snuck an appreciative glance at the other's outfit, then tapped her gently on the shoulder. "I love your skirt," she offered.

"Thanks," the other woman said. "I really like it." Aziraphale twitched a finger – it wasn't necessary, but the gesture was satisfying. The woman dropped one hand to touch the fabric at her hip, then lit up in surprise and delight. "It has pockets!"


End file.
